


Paradiso

by Kate_Lear



Series: Among the Secret Things [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-30
Updated: 2013-06-30
Packaged: 2017-12-16 16:38:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/864235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kate_Lear/pseuds/Kate_Lear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short sequel to 'Among the Secret Things'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paradiso

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to fengirl88 and innie_darling for beta-reading and encouragement. And many thanks also to coloredink, who very kindly allowed me to play in this verse for just a little longer.

The case is simple to solve, once Sherlock thinks of checking the journey history of Mr Sinclair’s Oyster card. It’s almost simple enough that, in the past, Sherlock would have been disappointed at how little real substance there was for him to sink his teeth into, but not now. Because now he has John smiling at him and calling him ‘amazing,’ and ‘marvellous,’ and resting a proprietary hand in the small of Sherlock’s back as Sherlock raises his hand to flag down a taxi. One slows and starts to indicate and Sherlock cocks a hip in his most nonchalant pose – the one John says makes him look as though he’s lounging in mid-air – as it pulls over to the curb, headlights glowing faintly in the gathering autumnal dusk.

‘Oh, it was easy,’ Sherlock says with studied casualness, and John snorts at him.

‘Yeah, for you it’s easy. But I mean… how could you possibly have known that that bloke was really Neville Sinclair all along?’

John’s tone indicates that he’s not really expecting a reply, and Sherlock turns his head and preens a little as they get in the taxi; John slams the door behind them and directs the driver to Northumberland Street before sinking back to sit next to Sherlock.

Before the events of the _Friesland_ , Sherlock would watch John hungrily as they had dinner after whatever successful case he’d just solved, and when they finished and got home and retired to their separate bedrooms he would poke at his experiments or laptop before going to bed, restless and unsatisfied, a nameless itch crawling under his skin.

Now Sherlock sits back in the seat, anticipation already gathering low in his belly at the private smile John gives him. That look of John’s thrills him still, even after all these months, and Sherlock lets his knees fall open slightly wider when John rests his hand casually on Sherlock’s leg.

In the restaurant Angelo fusses over them both, installing them in a more secluded table than their usual window seat at John’s request. Sherlock recounts the details of their most recent case to Angelo while John peruses the menu; even after John flips the menu shut he makes no move to interrupt Sherlock but merely watches him with a faintly indulgent look until Sherlock loses the thread of his monologue, too distracted by John’s ankle resting against his.

Angelo grins at Sherlock when he falls silent, flicks a knowing glance at John, and booms ‘Marvellous. Well then, what’ll it be? This calls for something special, surely.’

He turns to John questioningly, and John says ‘I’d like the seafood linguini, please.’

‘Done. Sherlock?’

Sherlock waves a hand dismissively. ‘I’m fine, I–’ 

‘He’ll have the milanese di pollo, with a rocket and tomato salad, please,’ John says, gathering up the menus and handing them to Angelo. ‘Perhaps with a bottle of the Pinot Grigio?’

‘Good choice.’ Angelo nods approvingly, making a brief note on his pad, before vanishing in a flick of apron strings.

Sherlock frowns. ‘I don’t–’

‘Indulge me,’ John murmurs, leaning forward and resting his forearms on the table. ‘I promise you won’t regret it.’

He licks his lower lip thoughtfully, holding Sherlock’s gaze, until Sherlock has to look away and fidget with the edge of the tablecloth.

‘Now come on.’ John’s ankle nudges his companionably. ‘Tell me again how his Oyster card was the thing that helped you work it out.’

‘It’s very simple,’ Sherlock says, but he leans forward and begins to elaborate, encouraged by the approving gleam of John’s eyes.

The food arrives soon – clearly their order has been given priority in the kitchen – and when John picks up his fork, Sherlock does likewise. It’s hardly worth arguing, not when he has John’s legs tangling with his and John topping up his wineglass while murmuring ‘Brilliant, just brilliant.’

The richness of the breaded chicken is offset by the cool bitterness of the rocket, and Sherlock discovers that he does have an appetite after all. He eats until his initial hunger pangs have been satisfied, and then looks up to see John watching him.

The look in John’s eyes makes Sherlock shiver in his clothes, and sends pleasant tendrils of anticipation curling down into his stomach. During a case his appetite for sex goes the same way as his appetites for food, sleep, and anything else that detracts from the puzzle in front of him, but the case is now finished and John is licking his lower lip in a way that means he has thoughts of truly spectacular shenanigans going on back at 221B. Sherlock sets down his fork.

‘I don’t think I’m hungry any more,’ he murmurs, his hands suddenly clumsy and his face beginning to warm.

‘Yeah.’ John sets his own cutlery down. ‘Me neither.’ He accosts a passing waiter. ‘ ’scuse me, could we get these boxed up to take home? Ta.’

The table staff at Angelo’s all know them by sight, and in short order they’re outside in the crisp night air with two warm boxes in the paper bag looped over John’s wrist. The taxi ride home is uneventful, quite simply because Sherlock stares out of the window the whole way home. He doesn’t trust himself to look at John, sitting beside him with the air of careless arrogance that suits him so well. John has been content to let Sherlock drag him all over town for the past few days, but now his posture and attitude say quite clearly that enough is enough and that he’s taking Sherlock home with very definite Plans in mind.

Once at home and inside their flat John locks the door against an impromptu visit from Mrs Hudson, as she walked in once when things were getting heated on the sofa – shirts loosened and hands wandering – which was an experience all parties could have done without. John sets the bag on a clean corner of the kitchen table before turning to Sherlock and murmuring ‘Come here.’

Stomach fluttering pleasantly, Sherlock does so and John hooks a finger in his belt and pulls him closer still, until they’re almost pressed against each other.

‘Do you know,’ John says, still speaking so quietly, ‘what seeing your brain at work does to me?’

‘I do, yes,’ Sherlock says. He’s trying for smug and superior, but his voice comes out breathless.

‘No, see…’ John runs his finger around Sherlock’s belt, tugging him this way and that with casual confidence. ‘I’m not sure you do.’

Sherlock swallows hard. He’s never been good at denying himself something he wants, and now he dips down to steal a kiss from John. John lifts his chin and kisses Sherlock readily, cupping his hand under Sherlock’s chin and slowing him down until Sherlock is gripping John’s shirtfront and chasing his mouth.

‘Easy,’ John mutters, his breath tickling Sherlock’s lips. ‘What’s your hurry, we’ve got all night.’

He walks Sherlock back until Sherlock’s shoulder blades bump the wall, and proceeds to tug Sherlock’s scarf off and lay kisses along the side of his throat.

‘As a seduction technique it’s fairly unusual,’ John says, nuzzling at Sherlock’s pulse point and tugging Sherlock’s shirt out of his trousers to push his hand under it and stroke his fingertips along Sherlock’s side. ‘I can’t say I mind, though. My only wonder is how many men you’ve had your wicked way with, practising that over the years.’

Sherlock has a particular weakness – of which John is well aware – for having his throat kissed and stroked, and John’s fingertips are delicate as they trace suggestive lines down his waist and stomach. Which is why he doesn’t pause for thought before lifting his chin and closing his eyes, saying lazily ‘Only one thus far, so I shouldn’t worry too much.’

There’s no answering hum from John, no teasing dance of fingers up over his ribs. Instead John stills, his hand suddenly pressing flat against Sherlock’s side and fingers splaying as he says ‘Is that… um, is that including me, or–’

‘Of course it’s including you.’ Sherlock frowns a little and tilts his throat pointedly towards John’s mouth, trying to encourage a return of John’s caresses, but John is moving back, pulling his hands out from under Sherlock’s shirt and smoothing it down and no, that isn’t what Sherlock wanted at _all_.

‘So…’ John has the small crease between his brows that means he’s working something out, pieces falling into place; Sherlock can’t think what it might be until John says ‘So the first time we slept together, back when – hey, no, come on, now.’

Sherlock doesn’t like to think about those days – _hates_ it, in fact – and John grabs a fold of his coat when he tries to move away.

‘Don’t be like that,’ John says, hanging on with one hand and slipping the other under Sherlock’s coat and jacket to rub at his side. ‘I just meant that… well. That was your first time, and I didn’t even know.’

‘Of course you didn’t know,’ Sherlock says tartly, refusing to meet John’s gaze. ‘I hadn’t intended for you to know.’

This is absolutely the _last_ episode of their time together that Sherlock wants to discuss and he huffs out a breath, unable to escape without bodily shoving John out of the way.

‘You were innocent,’ John says gently, and the idea is enough to make Sherlock laugh aloud.

‘Ignorant,’ he says, mocking and superior. ‘I was ignorant. I’ve not been innocent for many years now.’

But John isn’t laughing. Instead he only strokes Sherlock’s side some more and corrects ‘No, innocent. There are lots of different types of innocence, Sherlock.’

Sherlock doesn’t quite know what to do with the soft, oddly sad expression on John’s face, or how a promising evening has deteriorated to this point. He only knows that he has to fix it, and he begins stupidly ‘I…’

‘Come on.’ John takes pity on his adolescent awkwardness, for he drops a chaste little kiss in the hollow of Sherlock’s throat bared by his open collar and says ‘Let’s go to bed.’

Sherlock nods, relieved that they’re back on track, before surging forward to kiss John again. But they’re not _quite_ back on track, it would seem, because John catches Sherlock’s face in his hands, rough palms cradling Sherlock’s jaw and thumbs stroking his cheeks, and eases Sherlock back.

‘Come on,’ John says, in response to Sherlock’s little growl of displeasure, and nudges Sherlock towards the door leading out onto the landing and the stairs.

Sherlock resists. ‘My bed’s bigger than yours. And nicer.’

John quirks an eyebrow at him. ‘I know that, Mr “So I Just Went Ahead And Moved In”. But we’re not going to my bedroom; we’re going to the bathroom.’

Sherlock smiles at the casual reference to their first meeting. He was there when John remembered that: John had gone silent and still for several moments one afternoon, and when he stirred in response to Sherlock’s reiterations of his name he had laughed and said ‘So _that’s_ why I have the upstairs bedroom, you git.’

But the giddy pleasure of the memory isn’t enough to distract him from the change in plans. ‘Why the bathroom?’

John’s fingers slide across Sherlock’s waist, and dip down to brush against his arse.

‘Because I want to strip you out of that suit and take a shower with you,’ John says. His fingers trace a deliberate line down the seam of Sherlock’s trousers, and Sherlock bites his lip. ‘Because you look far more gorgeous when you’re naked and wet than anyone has a right to, and because I want to get you very clean so I can proceed to do truly uncivilised things to you. Alright?’

John’s fingers stop their maddening little trail and grip Sherlock’s bum to squeeze possessively, and Sherlock’s knees are suddenly a bit unsteady.

‘Alright,’ he murmurs, and John’s smile widens.

The shower is large enough for both of them, and Sherlock perks up at the sight of John’s arousal as he gets in behind Sherlock.

‘Don’t give me that look,’ John warns him, pushing Sherlock gently under the warm spray and uncapping the bottle of shampoo. ‘The last time you wanted to try shower sex we fell over and almost pulled the shower curtain down with us, and I’m not in the mood to shout down to Mrs Hudson that she doesn’t need to call an ambulance, it’s just my boyfriend getting overambitious again.’

He tugs Sherlock out from under the warm water and starts to work the shampoo through his hair; the rough massage of John’s hands in his hair makes Sherlock’s eyes close and his toes curl slightly against the floor of the bath, but all the same he rouses enough to mutter disdainfully ‘ ’m not your _boyfriend_.’

‘No?’ John’s thumbs press hard into Sherlock’s nape, circling rhythmically, and Sherlock moans a little in bliss. ‘What would you prefer: partner in crime? Accomplice? Known associate?’

‘Mmm,’ Sherlock says nonsensically, his train of thought fragmenting and falling away as he’s lulled into stupidity under John’s touch.

The shower definitely errs more on the side of getting clean than sex. Usually Sherlock wouldn’t mind this – he is, after all, very fastidious, and John’s shower gel has a pleasing scent – but this time his patience expires when he’s sitting on the closed lid of the toilet and John is towelling his hair. Their positions put his face level with John’s groin and Sherlock ducks out from under the towel, grips John’s hips, and leans forward to nuzzle into the dark blond hair at John’s groin and demand ‘Are we _ever_ going to make it to bed?’

Sherlock turns his head to let his open mouth bump the side of John’s cock; John’s breath catches but his voice holds only wry humour as his hands ease Sherlock’s face away from his groin.

‘I suppose it’s useless telling you to be patient,’ he murmurs, fingers carding Sherlock’s damp hair back off his face. ‘Come on, then, bed. Just give me a moment, and you can borrow my spare dressing gown to walk down in.’

John ducks out of the bathroom, in a gust of scented steam, and across the landing to return a few moments later, his own dressing gown roughly tied around his waist and holding out his spare to Sherlock.

‘It’ll be a bit short on you, but it’s only to – Sherlock!’

Sherlock has grown tired of waiting – and the chances are tiny that Mrs Hudson will be upstairs at this hour – and he wanders out of the bathroom and sets off down the stairs.

‘Sherlock!’ John hisses after him, sounding torn between laughter and alarm, and Sherlock ignores him. His feet leave faintly damp prints on the stairs as he descends, and he pauses on the tiny landing between flights to turn to face John and demand ‘Aren’t you coming?’

‘Jesus Christ,’ John mutters as Sherlock starts down the second flight toward their living room, and John’s feet thump lightly on the stairs as he hurries after Sherlock.

‘Get in there,’ John orders, catching up with Sherlock in their living room and hustling them toward Sherlock’s bedroom. ‘God, you’re a menace.’

John crowds up behind him and Sherlock smiles, letting John grip his hips and manhandle him into his bedroom and pausing only to kick the door shut.

‘What am I going to do with you,’ John mutters into his ear, turning Sherlock to face him, but the way John’s hands wander back to grip his bum tells Sherlock that suggestions aren’t really required at this juncture and he presses himself close against John and dips his face to nuzzle into the wonderful-smelling crook of John’s neck.

‘Mmm.’ John retaliates with a tiny nip to Sherlock’s throat. ‘Come on, you. On the bed.’

Sherlock doesn’t want to let go but John walks him over to the bed and deftly hooks a foot around his ankle to tip him onto the mattress. Sherlock bounces a little as he lands and glares up at John but John only laughs, shrugging off his dressing gown and tossing it aside before climbing into bed.

‘Don’t give me that face,’ he says, gripping Sherlock’s arm and coaxing him to move toward the centre of the bed. ‘I’ll make it up to you.’

Sherlock slides into the centre, and hangs onto his scowl through an effort of will. ‘I don’t see how.’

‘Hmm.’ John pretends to consider this while pressing himself against Sherlock’s side and skating a palm along Sherlock’s ribs. ‘What if I sucked you off; do you think that might do it?’

As Sherlock’s heart stutters and then starts to pound, Sherlock has to admit that that’s a masterstroke. Even more than getting fucked by John, Sherlock loves John’s mouth on him, loves it so much that he’s been known to sit meekly through episodes of insipid crime dramas without giving away the culprit and the method, and to restrain himself at crime scenes when confronted with Anderson’s ineptitude (at least when within earshot of John).

‘Yes,’ Sherlock says, trying to sound unconcerned even as his body gives him away, knees tilting open and his cock firming. ‘Yes, I think that might do it.’

‘Well, only if you’re sure.’ John’s voice is grave but his eyes sparkle with mirth. His hand slides up Sherlock’s chest, one thumb rubbing back and forth over a nipple. ‘I mean, I wouldn’t want to–’

The rest of his sentence is lost, swallowed by Sherlock’s mouth as Sherlock loses patience and drags him in for a kiss, and John leaves off teasing Sherlock’s nipple and kisses him back, cradling Sherlock’s jaw in his palm. John takes his time, apparently unaware of Sherlock’s attempts to move things along as he rolls onto his side and presses close to John, but John’s hand slides around to Sherlock’s spine to trace his fingertips down it gently.

John makes a pleased noise as he pulls back, glancing down between their bodies to where Sherlock has been pressing his half-hard cock none too subtly against John’s hip, and smiles.

‘Like that, do you?’ he murmurs, and leans back in for another unhurried kiss while Sherlock squirms and pushes his hips against John’s and clutches at John’s warm, bare skin.

John likes kissing Sherlock; he’s told Sherlock so at length. He likes the fullness of Sherlock’s mouth, and the way it makes Sherlock go just a little bit stupid with want, and now John takes his time. He nips gently at Sherlock’s lower lip, and cups Sherlock’s jaw with his hand to stroke Sherlock’s chin with his thumb and encourage Sherlock’s lips to part just enough for John to dip his tongue inside.

After a few minutes of this Sherlock moans, his eyes fluttering closed. His hands have stilled on John’s back; he’s no longer trying to goad John into anything as it’s clear that John plans to take his own sweet time about this, but the teasing little brushes of John’s tongue are so delicious that when John pulls back Sherlock leans forward, following him blindly until John presses his thumb against Sherlock’s mouth.

‘God, you’re gorgeous,’ John says, his voice low, and Sherlock opens his eyes to see that John is flushed slightly, his eyelids heavy and lust in his gaze when he looks at Sherlock. ‘I can’t believe I get to have you like this.’

‘There’s not much having going on,’ Sherlock says. He means to sound commanding, displeased, but it emerges more plaintive and John laughs a little.

‘Oh, I’ve got some plans in that direction,’ John says, his look warm with affection and amusement. ‘You’ll be thoroughly _had_ before I let you sleep, don’t you worry about that.’

The anticipation knocks Sherlock breathless all over again, and he goes willingly when John rolls him onto his back and shuffles down the bed.

 _Finally_ , and Sherlock spreads his legs eagerly for John to lie between them, his hips curling upward a little at the thought of what’s to come.

But John stops when he’s only partway down, when the weight of his stomach on Sherlock’s cock is a dreadful, gorgeous tease and his mouth is level with Sherlock’s nipples.

‘I love these,’ John says, dipping his head to brush his closed lips over Sherlock’s right nipple, making Sherlock arch a little. ‘I love that they’re so sensitive, and that you like me touching them so much.’

‘There are other parts of me that I’d also enjoy you touching,’ Sherlock says, nudging his hips up against John’s belly, but John only grins at him before covering Sherlock’s nipple with his open mouth.

For all his complaints Sherlock tilts his head back and winds his fingers in John’s hair as John starts to suck, bracing his heels against the bed so he can arch wantonly up against John’s mouth. John’s body is heavy and solid between his thighs and like this Sherlock can just about tilt his hips back and forth and rub his cock against John’s stomach while John sucks lazily at his nipples.

John lifts his head, enough so his breath tickles Sherlock’s skin as he speaks. ‘You’re squirming.’

Sherlock grumbles a little in his throat, tightening his fingers in John’s hair and trying to guide his head back down, and John lets himself be drawn part of the way before veering off to nuzzle along the sparse line of hair scattered down Sherlock’s sternum.

‘ _John_ ,’ Sherlock whines, trying to guide John’s head over to where Sherlock wants it, and John laughs a little.

‘Do you know,’ John says lazily, propping his head up on one hand while the fingers of the other hand stroke and tease across Sherlock’s nipples, ‘what I would have done to you if I’d known it was your first time?’

Sherlock shakes his head mutely, biting his lip a little at the distraction of John’s hand on him.

‘I’d have _spoiled_ you,’ John murmurs, his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s teeth worrying at his lip. ‘I’d have spoiled you rotten, ruined you for anyone but me.’

For a moment regret spears through Sherlock, that things turned out the way they have and that John won’t get this thing that Sherlock didn’t even know he wanted, but the next moment John lowers his head to kiss Sherlock’s chest and doesn’t look even a little disappointed.

‘Show me,’ Sherlock says, and dear God is that really his voice? He sounds as though he’s just smoked half a pack of cigarettes. ‘What you would have done. Show me.’

John makes a noise that’s half a laugh, half a growl, and before Sherlock can respond he squirms down the bed and runs his palms along Sherlock’s inner thighs.

‘Spread them wider for me,’ he orders and Sherlock does, his heart leaping and pounding at the sight of John lying between his thighs, his mouth so close to Sherlock’s cock where it strains up against his belly. ‘Good. There you go.’

John dips his head to nose gentle kisses along Sherlock’s inner thighs, and Sherlock tips his head back and bites his lip. He’s determined not to break down and start _begging_ , of all things, but he can’t hold back a gasp when John’s open mouth presses against the side of his cock.

John works his way up to the head, and when he lets it slide between his lips and into the soft heat of his mouth Sherlock’s hips twitch and a strangled noise emerges from his throat. John murmurs approvingly at him, his hands squeezing Sherlock’s thighs lightly, and Sherlock’s hips buck again as John moves his mouth. The first lazy pull on his cock makes sound bubble up out of his throat and he reaches down to tangle his fingers in the sheets, his legs falling open wider.

John knows very well what this does to him, and how much Sherlock loves it, and Sherlock gives himself over to the slow, languorous movements of John’s mouth on him. John’s fingers play idly along the soft skin of his inner thighs, drawing gentle little patterns; his mouth isn’t urgent or demanding, but instead the sort of sensual pace that John can maintain indefinitely without pushing Sherlock any closer to orgasm.

‘John,’ Sherlock moans, one hand loosening in the sheets to touch John’s head, silently pleading.

His legs shift restlessly, the slightest edge of frustration starting to creep in around the edges of the breathless, melting pleasure that’s taken up residence in his stomach, and John makes a soothing noise and winds an arm around one of Sherlock’s thighs to hold him steady. Sherlock whines a little, moving his leg just to feel the strength of John’s arm where it tightens around him, and gasps sharply when John pulls away from his cock.

‘What…’ Sherlock says, stupid and dazed, and falters when John dips down lower to press his mouth against the soft, private skin behind Sherlock’s balls. ‘Oh God. Are you…’

‘Yeah.’ John lifts his head to look at Sherlock, his hair ruffled from Sherlock’s fingers and his mouth wet and very red. His eyes track greedily across Sherlock’s face and down his throat. ‘Your face flushes bright pink when I’m sucking your cock, did you know that? It’s bloody gorgeous but _this_ … this makes you go red, right down to your chest, and God I want to see it.’

With no more ado John drops his head; his hair tickles Sherlock’s inner thighs and John’s hands slide under his bum to grip and tilt him and Sherlock moans breathlessly at the wet slide of John’s mouth down and back. John laps across his hole in broad, hard swipes, and Sherlock hooks an arm under a knee and spreads himself open. The other hand fumbles up to grip the headboard, bracing himself so he can strain to curl his hips up to John’s mouth, and he whimpers a little as John licks and sucks at him.

It’s like a form of mild torture: he has to hold himself perfectly still instead of arching and squirming in pleasure as he wants to, since any movement from him will uncouple the tenuous press of John’s mouth to him. Sherlock’s muscles start to burn slightly with the strain of holding himself in such a position; the urge to writhe is an almost physical tug at his spine and when John mashes his face harder against him Sherlock can’t stop himself crying out. At last Sherlock starts to tremble, and John leans up and guides Sherlock’s legs down to rest on the bed.

‘There you are,’ John murmurs, pressing hard kisses along Sherlock’s thighs. ‘Steady now. God, just look at you.’

‘John.’ Sherlock’s face is burning; he can’t imagine what he looks like but the way John looks at him makes his toes curl. ‘Please, I can’t…’

Sherlock half-sits up to reach for John – not knowing quite what he intends to do but certain that he can’t bear to be _teased_ a moment longer – but John only shifts up to nuzzle at Sherlock’s hipbone. The head of Sherlock’s cock bumps against his throat, his jaw, and Sherlock chews his lip frantically until John turns his head and pulls it back into his mouth.

Sherlock’s heels dig into the mattress and he clutches at John’s shoulder with the hand that’s not bracing himself. No more soft, slow build: this is fast and dirty and just the slightest bit rough, and Sherlock gasps at the ceiling as his stomach muscles start to jump and tighten.

One of John’s hands grips the base of his cock, and the other… oh Christ, the other is squirming underneath him, and Sherlock cants his hips encouragingly as John stretches to press a fingertip against Sherlock’s hole.

‘I…’ Sherlock stutters. He can feel the pressure in his groin, hot and immediate; his toes are curling, his body tensing up in preparation, and his back arches when John pushes his finger up inside him. God, he wants to _sit_ on John’s fingers, and he strains to tilt his hips and allow John deeper.

John only hums encouragingly, his hand tightening around the base of Sherlock’s cock in a clear _Go on_ as Sherlock feels himself thicken slightly, and as John crooks his finger just _so_ Sherlock’s hips jolt and he starts to come.

Sherlock cries out through it, eyes closing; impossible to stay silent when John has him all but pinned in place between mouth and fingers and half-paralysed with pleasure. He’s aware of John swallowing around him with each surge, John’s finger sliding and pressing inside him in a way that causes more shudders of sensation when Sherlock thought he was done, and Sherlock can only hang onto John’s shoulder as John coaxes him through it.

Abruptly, almost between one breath and the next, John’s mouth on him tips the balance from being pleasurable to too much, and Sherlock’s knees quiver as an uncertain noise struggles out of his throat. John lets him slide free at once, gently withdrawing his finger, and leans up enough to crowd Sherlock back down onto the mattress. Sherlock goes, the arm with which he’s been bracing himself up suddenly limp and useless, and John slides back up the bed to lie beside Sherlock and grin as Sherlock pants at the ceiling.

‘Alright there?’ John asks, sounding almost _amused_ , the bastard.

‘I…’ Sherlock’s heart gallops in his ribcage, and he draws a deep breath. ‘I’m…’

John laughs a little. ‘Come here.’

Before Sherlock can decide what to do in response to John’s entertainment at his expense, John grips Sherlock and tugs him to roll towards him. Sherlock ends up sprawled half over John, his face tucked into John’s throat, while John hugs him tightly, gripping his nape and scrubbing his hands through Sherlock’s hair in almost rough caresses, exactly as Sherlock had seen John petting a large, over-friendly dog they had encountered several cases ago. Sherlock clings to him, pushing his face against John’s skin and inhaling John’s familiar scent, and feels his brain coming back online with each path that John’s fingers take through his hair, each endearment muttered to him.

John’s cock is still hard against Sherlock’s hip, and Sherlock reaches down to rub his palm along it.

‘Mmm.’ John’s hips shift but his hand comes down on Sherlock’s wrist, stilling him. ‘Actually, I had some ideas about that.’

‘Of course,’ says Sherlock. He doesn’t ask what they are; whatever John wants from Sherlock he can have, and Sherlock lifts his hand and waits for John to tell him.

John kisses his forehead slowly, before nudging him. ‘Turn over.’

Sherlock turns, limp and compliant, and lets John stuff a pillow under his hips and nudge his thighs apart as he stretches like a lazy cat. It’s clear to see where this is going, and Sherlock leans over to fish the lubricant out of the bedside table and pass it to John.

‘Don’t feel you need to go gently,’ Sherlock says, tugging a pillow over to rest his head on and reaching up to curl his fingers around the edge of the headboard. ‘I can take it.’

John makes an odd sound, and Sherlock glances back over his shoulder to see John grinning at him.

‘What?’ Sherlock demands, with just a touch of indignation. ‘I–’ 

‘I know,’ John interrupts him. ‘I know you can.’

John sets the tube down to one side and runs his hands down Sherlock’s sides, his eyes following their path in open appreciation and Sherlock arches his spine, posing just a little.

‘But what’s the rush, though?’ John says, and his hands on Sherlock’s arse cause pleasurable little flutters in Sherlock’s stomach. John handles him gently but confidently, like someone holding a treasured possession that’s not meant to be put away on a shelf to gather dust but taken down to be used and admired, and Sherlock revels in it. ‘Let’s take the scenic route.’

‘Mmm,’ Sherlock agrees, too distracted by John groping his bum to come up with a better rejoinder, and John leans down to plant a kiss in the small of Sherlock’s back. Sherlock goes very still at this, a suspicion of John’s intentions flickering in his mind, and moans a little as the soft, hot press of John’s mouth moves downwards.

‘Alright there?’

John’s hands are gentle, coaxing, and Sherlock nuzzles into his pillow and rumbles assent at John, spreading his legs wider and arching his spine as John moves lower.

It’s an odd feeling: his body is caught between lazy, post-orgasmic lassitude and the shivery pleasure of John’s mouth on him, and for long minutes he hangs precariously between them. John is in no hurry and he works away lazily, almost messily, at Sherlock until Sherlock turns his head to press his flushed cheek into his pillow and moan softly. John makes no reply but his hands stroke soothingly across Sherlock’s hips and down his legs and Sherlock can almost hear John, clear as if John had spoken, saying that there is nowhere else he would rather be than right here, pleasuring Sherlock until Sherlock feels like a spoiled courtesan.

Gradually, Sherlock’s interest in John’s actions tips from lazy indolence to something sharper, hungrier, and he shifts his hips as his cock thickens sluggishly. He pushes his hips down against the pillow wedged between his thighs and catches his breath at the flicker of interest deep in his groin, and John squeezes the backs of his thighs approvingly as Sherlock does it again, and again.

Slowly – _achingly_ slowly – Sherlock starts to get hard, desire pulling into focus inside him with each dull thump of his heart, each flutter of John’s tongue against him. He fists his hands in the pillow under his head and pushes his hips into the one between his legs, John’s hands gripping him steadyingly when Sherlock gets too impatient and holding him to this soft, steady press of lips and tongue. At last Sherlock has to slide a hand under his stomach and down, taking his cock in hand and squeezing himself gently. No doubt about it, he’s hard again, but this time has none of the urgency of previously. Instead it feels like someone has turned all his bones to putty; he’s lazy and indolent all over apart from the hot, sweet ache between his legs.

‘John,’ Sherlock moans. He strokes himself, and can’t resist a tiny push into his hand at the shivers of sensation.

John lifts his head.

‘How’re you getting on,’ he murmurs, working a hand under Sherlock’s hip and Sherlock takes his own hand away in favour of pressing his cock into John’s palm.

‘Mmm,’ John says, approval and arousal thrumming in his voice. ‘Perfect.’

The tickle of his breath against Sherlock’s skin makes Sherlock squirm. It makes no _sense_ that John praising his body in bed makes him feel just as giddy as John praising his mind out of bed. Physical attractiveness is largely due to genetic factors outside one’s control – and Sherlock’s own is certainly nowhere near as impressive as the mental abilities he’s worked so hard to cultivate – but all the same Sherlock writhes in pleasure at John’s obvious desire for him.

The next instant he moans as John’s mouth is replaced by his fingers, rubbing back and forth across his hole before dipping inside slightly and Sherlock’s stomach flutters.

‘Do you want to…’ he murmurs, spreading his legs slightly wider in unmissable invitation.

‘Yeah,’ John says lowly, pushing deeper to find the spot that never fails to make Sherlock’s breath catch. ‘I really do. If you’re up for it?’

‘Mmm.’ Sherlock lays his head down on his folded arms and arches his spine a little, offering himself up for John to do whatever he likes. John can have anything he wants from Sherlock, he knows that by now, but instead of sliding back up the bed to fuck him John merely hums thoughtfully and presses an absent-minded kiss to the small of Sherlock’s back.

‘You look like someone’s removed all your bones,’ John says, while his fingers wring tremors out of Sherlock. ‘I suppose you riding me is out of the question.’

Sherlock makes an agreeable sort of noise. He _feels_ very agreeable: heavy and soaked in pleasure, from the rub of his cock on the pillow and the maddening little motions of John’s fingers in him, but he stirs himself to say ‘If you want then I could–’

‘No.’ The laughter in John’s voice is back. ‘No, you’re fine. This is rather a good look on you. But all the same, I think I want to see you now. Turn over.’

John tugs at Sherlock’s hip until Sherlock complies; it’s an ungainly tangle of limbs but at last John kneels between Sherlock’s spread thighs.

‘God, you look gorgeous,’ John says, his voice gone rough with arousal as he squirts lubricant into his hand and works his cock in his fist, and Sherlock smiles lazily at him. His face feels warm and he suspects he’s flushed, and he drops a hand down between his legs to start touching himself as John watches. It’s nice to do this without feeling an immediate, desperate urge to get off, and Sherlock rolls his hips and pushes his cock up through his fingers until John is knocking his hand away and hauling Sherlock’s hips up into his lap.

There’s a brief moment of fumbling as John takes hold of himself, and then the familiar blunt pressure as John pushes into him and Sherlock closes his eyes to better focus on the sensation.

‘God, the look on your face,’ John says, letting go of himself once he’s sunk partway into Sherlock in order to plant his hands on the mattress and lean forward to kiss Sherlock’s forehead. ‘You get this… God, this expression, every time, like you can’t quite believe how it feels.’

Sherlock says nothing, only cants his hips up as John sinks further into him and slides his hands up John’s arms to cup his shoulders as he hums in pleasure. He grips John’s nape to tug him down for a kiss as John groans and shoves the rest of the way into Sherlock. God, it feels almost obscene: John’s tongue in his mouth and his cock in Sherlock’s arse, and Sherlock moans his appreciation as John withdraws slightly and pushes back in.

John murmurs incoherently to him, working one hand between Sherlock’s skull and the pillow and cradling his head as he moves in him, and Sherlock opens his eyes and cards his fingers from John’s nape up through his hair.

‘You can go harder, you know,’ he says. The pace John has set is gentle, almost languid, and John kisses him again before replying.

‘I know. But slow can be nice too.’

Sherlock can only kiss him in agreement. Slow _is_ nice: John’s thrusts are making his toes curl, and after a few minutes Sherlock has to push a hand down between their bodies to start touching himself. The combined stimulus makes his eyes close, and he bites his lip as his grip tightens on his cock and he strokes faster, harder.

The thought comes to mind of their first time doing this, Sherlock’s first time having any sort of sex with anyone at all. Things couldn’t be more different now from how they had been then, and John kisses Sherlock’s cheek as though he can guess what Sherlock is thinking.

‘Come on, then,’ he says, instead of any of the other things Sherlock is anticipating, like _I wish I’d known_. ‘Come on, gorgeous. Show me.’

John starts moving harder, faster, and Sherlock tilts his head back and gasps as he starts to move his hand faster on himself. There’s a promising tightness starting deep in his groin but it comes together slowly, _so_ slowly, and Sherlock arches and moans a little in frustration. He’s gone from being pleasantly post-coital to needing to come again, and John kisses him briefly.

‘What do you need?’ John murmurs, as Sherlock pants and strains beneath him. ‘Tell me. Slower?’

‘Yes,’ Sherlock grits out, his hand working frantically on his cock. ‘Slower.’

John immediately slows his pace but he also gets _gentler_ , damn him, which isn’t’ what Sherlock wanted at all.

‘No, harder,’ Sherlock gasps, and squeezes his eyes closed. ‘Oh God, harder, please, _please_ –’ 

John takes him at his word, and changes to deep, hard shoves that make the headboard thump against the wall and Sherlock’s stomach muscles start to shudder and tense.

‘Hang on,’ John says, voice unsteady. ‘Let me get more lube, I don’t want to leave you sore.’

He stops moving and Sherlock almost snarls at him before gritting his teeth, and John fumbles with the tube before saying ‘Here.’

Obediently Sherlock holds out a hand and John squirts a generous dab of lubricant into it. This time when John starts moving again Sherlock can’t hold back his noises, and John kisses him.

‘I love hearing you,’ he mutters, while Sherlock groans and whimpers and his heels drag heavily along the backs of John’s thighs. ‘No, don’t…’ John’s hand cups Sherlock’s chin, teases his lower lip out from between his teeth. ‘Don’t do that.’

The extra lubricant is making everything warm and wet and _perfect_ , and Sherlock groans urgently as he feels his orgasm starting in his inner thighs and his balls.

‘Oh God,’ he moans, ‘John, I’m… oh Christ, it’s–’

John kisses him, cutting off his frantic babble, and Sherlock kisses back as best he can until the tension in his groin peaks and he spills over his fingers, toes curling as he groans heavily and John nuzzles the side of his face. He doesn’t produce much, the second time around, but the spasms feel as though they’re going to shake him apart and Sherlock digs his fingers into John’s back and hangs on.

John isn’t far behind him, apparently. Sherlock is still shuddering when John groans deeply and stills, tense and shaking, before sagging heavily on top of him, and Sherlock flings an arm around John’s shoulders and hugs him awkwardly, muscles loose and clumsy.

Slowly John starts to stir. He pulls back, his cock sliding free of Sherlock and making him arch a little, before collapsing down beside Sherlock and tugging at him. Sherlock lets himself be drawn into a hug, sprawling across John greedily and pressing his face to the join of John’s neck and shoulder, while John strokes Sherlock’s side and lifts Sherlock’s hair off his nape to let the cool air touch his sweat-damp skin.

‘I love you,’ John tells him quietly, and Sherlock presses himself harder against John. This is more than he deserves, and a far happier outcome than he’d ever dared to hope for while he was tangled in that web of lies he’d–

John pokes him in the ribs, making Sherlock startle, and says ‘Stop it.’

Sherlock lifts his head to look at John, who smoothes Sherlock’s hair back away from his face. ‘What?’

‘Thinking about that time. I can tell when you’re doing it, you know. You get all tense and your breathing changes.’ Sherlock leans back a bit, discomfited at being read so easily when he’s always fancied himself inscrutable, but John’s hand on his hip anchors him.

‘It’s alright, you know,’ John says, his hand tightening briefly on Sherlock’s hip. ‘I mean–’ and he fixes Sherlock with a glare, ‘– if you ever do anything like that to me ever again then I’ll bloody well kill you. But then again…’ his face softens, and the hand on Sherlock’s hip moves up to cup his face, ‘…you love me. In an obsessive and slightly disturbing way, but _God_ how you love me. I’m not sure anyone else has ever felt quite so… so _much_ about me as you do.’

Jealousy roils in Sherlock’s guts at this oblique reference to John’s previous partners but it’s true, he does love John – he _adores_ John – and so Sherlock says nothing.

‘Everyone does stupid things for love, now and then,’ John says, still very gentle, as though Sherlock is about to bolt. ‘Admittedly that one was fairly spectacular but even so. You’re not required to keep revisiting it.’

He pulls Sherlock towards him; Sherlock goes readily and John plants a kiss on his forehead, soft as an angel’s sigh.

‘You’ve been forgiven,’ John murmurs to him. ‘I promise. Now let it go.’

Sherlock closes his eyes and winds himself around John, hanging on for dear life, and John only grunts a little before returning his hug. The muscle of John’s shoulder is solid under his cheek, John’s breath tickles his hair, and John’s arms are strong around him. Strong enough to take anything Sherlock might give out, in fact, and Sherlock nuzzles into John’s throat and thinks that, if he were a religious man, he might count himself more blessed than any soul in the Empyrean.

 

\--End--

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Double Take](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1151538) by [ScopesMonkey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScopesMonkey/pseuds/ScopesMonkey)




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